


Heartless Bastard

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Blood, Death, Suicide, Triggers, Violence, dont read if queasy, im sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7014472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean gets the phone call that his brother Sam is dead, he struggles to cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartless Bastard

**Author's Note:**

> If you are lighthearted and feel you will be triggered, please don't read this. There is a lot of blood and ultimately ends in suicide.

He was shaking, chest burning and he could feel his lungs trembling. It was _toomuchtoomuchtoomuch_ , so he lunged and the wall, curled his fingers in and punched. It was a release, it felt good. Soon the discomfort was once again snaking up his forearms and sizzling his veins, they itched and burned and he went again, slamming his fist into the brick wall punching and punching. His knuckles swam in his own, sticky hot blood and he continued to punch away the discomfort he felt in himself and punched until he gave in and crumpled to the floor, shaking and sobbing. He brought his blood covered fist level to his face, unable to bend his destroyed fingers and let the world fall into darkness.

Dean woke up on the floor, he must have passed out in the hallway of his apartment. He groaned, his throat was tight and felt wrecked. He tried to hold onto the wall to support himself and get up, but soon hissed. He looked at his hand, memories of the night before swimming in his mind, hitting him all at once.

_"Winchester? Dean Winchester, brother of Sam Winchester? Sorry to inform you, but your brother passed away last night."_ Dean felt his heart crumple and the air sweeping out of his lungs. His legs were weak and the back of his neck was startlingly hot. He needed to throw up. Dean spent a while heaving and heaving and letting go, _Sam._

The woman on the phone told him how Sam passed due to some guy who decided his wallet felt a little tight, and went for Sam's and used a knife as a tool of persuasion. The fucker took his wallet and slit his throat, leaving Dean's brother to bleed out, gurgling his own warm slick blood in an alleyway. Sam, his Sammy who was in his first year of Stanford, studying law. Dead.

Dean howled and sobbed and swore vengeance, his brother was dead.

He remembers the last words he said to Sam, accusing him of leaving him and his dad. He told Sam he was being selfish. Maybe Dean just didn't want to be alone. His own selfishness and stubbornness to just be happy for his brother left them parted on frosted terms. Hell, it must be karma. It's Dean's fault his brother is dead.

At the start, Sam would call and call and call daily, hoping to patch things up with his brother, but Dean dismissed his calls and refused to talk. Sam has called him hundreds of times, and not once did Dean pick up.

He's a monster. It's his fault his brother is dead.

What is he _doing?_

Dean now stood before a mirror, disgusting. He no longer recognised his face and his own. Sunken, dull eyes, gaunt cheeks and past skin. He held on to the sides of the sink, his knuckles white as held on. Dean couldn't take it, his gritted his teeth and screwed up his eyes and flew at the mirror, his fists beating it until the blood from his hands ran down his forearms and stained the rolled up sleeves of his white work shirt red with his own, guilty disgusting blood. _Murderer._

He beat at the glass until he couldn't lift his arm anymore. Finally, he opened his eyes. The sight made his stomach turn. What has he done?

Disgusting. He pushed himself away from the sink and slid down the bathroom door until he was sitting in fragments of glass and his own blood. He was shaking, he felt lightheaded.

His fingers on his other, not so damaged hand curled around a longer, thinner shard of mirror and he croaked out a dry, humourless laugh. He should apologise to Sammy, let him know he's sorry.

The tighter he held the glass, the more it sliced into his fingers.

_Fuck it,_ he's done.

He laughed himself to his feet, crouching to find an intact part of his mirror and laughed at his reflection that he saw through the specks of dried blood. He's made quite the mess.

His shaking hand lifts the glass, holding it lightly to his neck. He's gonna go find Sammy, apologise.

He needs to let him know he's sorry, it's his fault he's dead.

 

In the space of three days, there were no more Winchesters.


End file.
